


After the Storm

by Anonymous



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Middle East, Paris Peace Conference, Politics, Post-World War I, Romance, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Lawrence is gone and Ali is trying to rebuild his life. When Prince Faisal calls Ali to Versailles, he finds Lawrence is among the delegates. But Lawrence is not the man Ali once knew. And loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NovaMist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaMist/gifts).



When Lawrence leaves Damascus, Ali is sure he has seen the last of him.

The Lawrence that leaves the desert in a British Army jeep is not the same man Ali remembers defiantly staring him down at his own well, the man who crossed the Nefud and then ran right back into it to save a man worth far less than he.

The man who rose to glory sailing on the rivers of blood from war, only to drown under the strength of the same current.

The man he loved.

The man who loved _him_.

But now Lawrence is gone. Gone as if the desert itself had swallowed him in her endless sands and all Ali has are bittersweet memories of what once was.

There will be no more miracles.

* * *

Ali remains in Damascus and learns politics, just as he had told Lawrence he would.

In 1919, after the war has subsided, Prince Faisal calls for Ali to visit him.

Ali goes to Faisal's palace and has tea with the prince on a wide balcony made entirely of marble.

"I am taking a delegation to the Paris Peace Conference and I would like you to join it," Faisal explains. "I know you are a student of Western politics and have a sharp mind. You were also Aurens' closest friend and ally. Come to France with us. It is where we Arabs shall make history and claim what is rightfully ours."

Ali has been learning politics for too long now to believe the Peace Conference will achieve anything for the Arabs. He knows the wants of America, England, Italy and France will overwhelm any and all others.

But it is Faisal’s wish. To refuse to go would deny his allegiance to the Prince, to his father, to his tribe.

So Ali travels to France, an ancient and faraway land of green and water and revolution Ali has heard great tales of. He meets Majid in Paris and they travel on together to Versailles.

“They are to form a League of Nations and sign an important international treaty,” Majid tells him in hushed tones. “All to ensure this was the war to end all wars.”

“I see,” Ali says. He doubts the organisation or its document will achieve much of anything.

“Do you know who else is in Faisal’s delegation?” Majid asks.

Ali sighs.

“No,” Ali says. “Excuse me.”

Ali does not look back.

* * *

Ali doesn’t know why he is surprised to see _him_ at the opening of the Conference. Majid's question, and the gleeful tone in which it was asked, should have given it away.

Of course _he_ would be the man Faisal would want at his side.

Perhaps it is because Ali had secretly begun to doubt if Lawrence had even been real in the first place, not just the result of the collective imagination. Or his own.

This Lawrence is no longer dressed in the resplendent white robes of a Sherif of the Harith, but in the drab beige of the British military. His hair is perfectly slicked back, the golden strands picking up the shine of the ballroom’s electric lights. His face is blank, his eyes fixed on a point off in the distance. There is a seemingly endless stream of people from more countries than Ali can name who crowd Lawrence, wanting to shake his hand, speak to him, touch him.

The Lawrence Ali knew enjoyed and even sought out such attention.

But this Lawrence is not the half-mad creature who left Damascus, a shell of a man with broken eyes and a damaged soul. This Lawrence looks the perfect British gentleman, a man whose interests likely ended at cricket and fox hunting. A man who has never known war or suffering, torture or death. A man so fortunate he does not even know to be grateful for the inner peace he enjoys.

If this is what Lawrence of Arabia has become upon returning to the green fields of Oxfordshire, Ali is glad of it.

But he can’t quite bring himself to believe it.

* * *

Although the eyes of the world are certainly upon him, Colonel Lawrence says little.

Ali knows there is far more to Lawrence's appearance here than Faisal's desire for an ally among the British. Lawrence's main task as a delegate has been to draw up maps of how best to divide the Middle East, with as many tribal nations and borders accounted for as possible.

But Ali doesn't believe the British will listen to Lawrence's advice any more than the Americans, Italians or French will. They are all too greedy, with too many concerns of their own to truly care if the Arabs are given their independence or not.

“I am here to support Prince Faisal and independence for all Arabs,” Lawrence tells all those who ask, repeating himself again and again.

Faisal tells Ali a photo is to be taken the next afternoon on the steps of the great stone building in which the delegation is staying. Ali has been told this building is a palace, and he believes it.

“I would like you to join me,” Faisal requests, and Ali cannot refuse him.

“If you wish it,” Ali replies.

“I do,” Faisal says. “It will be a great show of public unity among the Arabs and a sign of a powerful alliance with the English.”

Ali doubts he is important enough for his presence to make a difference either way, but he agrees to it.

He does not like to be photographed; he thinks he always looks stiff, awkward. He is yet to see a photograph of himself that captures what a mirror can. But he cannot back down now. The next afternoon, he dresses in his best robes and begins to make his way through the winding halls of this opulently-decorated citadel.

“I see you could not stay away, Harith.”

Ali does not turn around; he would know that voice anywhere. To his surprise, he cannot help but smile.

“Nor could you, Howeitat,” Ali says.

Auda’s laugh is loud and ricochets off the walls.

Ali turns to see Auda, eternally impressive in his curious blue and black robes, smirking at him.

“I could not refuse the request of Faisal himself,” Auda says.

“You are also to be part of the delegation?”

“Indeed. But I confess I was convinced only after Faisal went into great detail as to who else would be here,” Auda says, a sly smile on his face.

Ali’s smile falters.

“You and Aurens, together again,” Auda cries, joyfully clasping Ali’s upper arms. “I knew this day would come!”

“I have not yet spoken to Aurens.”

Auda’s own smile falls away, as does his embrace. “Why not? Have you not seen him?”

“No, I saw him. I saw at the reception,” Ali says. “Colonel Lawrence. He was in his military uniform. I…I could see no trace of the man I knew.”

Auda huffs. “If you looked at Aurens and saw nothing but Colonel Lawrence you know nothing,” he snaps. “He was changed after Deraa, just as he was changed after the bloody fighting that won us Damscus. But he was still Aurens. Just as he is now.”

Ali opens his mouth to speak, but Auda cuts him off.

“Speak with him, Harith,” Auda says. “You will see."

* * *

When Ali and Auda reach the steps, Majid smiles and then flicks his eyes to the left. Ali follows his gaze and sees the English General , Allenby, standing with Faisal. A photographer – Ali thinks his name is Thomas – is behind a large camera, directing the men how and where to stand so the photo can be taken.

Ali notes Thomas’ directions are perhaps overly polite, peppered with “please”, “Your Highness” and “Sir”. Although Ali supposes it is better to be overly polite to two such men than not. It was not wise to be thought of as rude by Faisal.

“Are you joining us for this photograph, Auda?” Majid asks. Ali can hearing the teasing note in his voice.

“I do not like being photographed," Auda sniffs. "But I am willing to suffer this inconvenience if it leads to Arab independence.”

“I take it Faisal paid you well?” Ali asks. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

To his surprise, Auda laughs.

“Very well indeed, Harith,” Auda says. “Very well indeed.”

“Colonel Lawrence!” Thomas calls. “Would you mind stepping in for this photo, please?”

Auda, Majid and Ali all turn to see Lawrence in his dress uniform, a white keffiyeh and gold agal in hand. He is fiddling with the agal's strings, which Ali sees are too loose. His fingers itch to tie them.

Ali is stunned. It is the keffiyeh and agal he gave to Lawrence after the first miracle, crossing the Nefud. Ali did not know Lawrence had kept them. The dirt and sand and sweat which caked them after Lawrence’s crossing of the Sinai have been scrubbed out and the keffiyeh shines like new, the agal dulled from wear but still striking against the white.

Lawrence had been so apologetic upon his return, worrying the robes Ali had given to him were ruined beyond repair. To Ali's suprise, Lawrence hadn’t cast off his Arab robes as soon as he’d arrived in Cairo. In fact, he’d returned to Aqaba in same robes he’d left in.

_“Were these your robes once?”_

_“Yes, but I have never worn them.”_

_“Oh? Why is that?”_

_“They were to be my wedding robes. But I am yet to have need of them.”_

Ali’s face burns at the memory. Lawrence had told Ali he would do his very best to have the robes cleaned and repaired. Despite Ali’s protests, he knew Lawrence would at least try. He’d not realised Lawrence would succeed.

He should have known better.

“Aurens!” Auda cries. “Do you need help with your keffiyeh?”

Lawrence looks up from his agal.

“Auda,” he says.

“Aurens.” Auda is smiling broadly, like the proverbial cat who stole the canary. “Have you seen our old friend Sherif Ali yet?”

Auda gestures toward Ali, and Lawrence’s eyes follow Auda’s hand.

“Ali,” he says. His voice is flat.

“Colonel Lawrence,” Ali replies.

Lawrence is silent for a long moment and when he finally speaks, his voice is tight. “I prefer not be called that."

“Colonel Lawrence,” Allenby booms. “I’m sorry to interrupt but the photographer is waiting. Put that damned thing on your head and come and join us.”

“Sherif Ali will help him!” Auda says, gleefully snatching the keffiyeh and agal out of Lawrence’s hands.

Lawrence and Ali both look at Auda. Then Ali looks back at Lawrence. Up close, he can see now what he couldn’t before. Lawrence is tired, drawn. There are lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t there in Damascus. His eyes are still that brilliant blue, but seem…dull.

Ali had taken Lawrence’s demeanour to be one of calm and peace. But all Lawrence looks is numb.

Lawrence turns his head to look at Ali. “Would you mind helping me with these, please? As you did when you first gave them to me.”

Ali can feel eyes on him, watching he and Lawrence closely. Auda, Thomas, Majid, Allenby, even Faisal.

Ali takes the keffiyeh from Auda’s hands. Lawrence bows his head and Ali smooths the white scarf over his golden hair, pulling it into place, and then takes the agal from Auda, carefully securing the keffiyeh with it, tying its loose ends.

Lawrence raises his head, slowly, and Ali reaches up to straighten the agal.

They look at each other for a long moment. Ali’s face feels so hot he is sure he has turned an alarming shade of crimson.

“Am I suitably attired?” Lawrence asks.

“Yes,” Ali whispers.

Lawrence smiles. “Thank you for your help, Sherif.”

Ali watches as Lawrence is photographed. Thomas asks him to stand between Allenby and Faisal. Closing the gap between his two peoples.

Ali knows Auda and Majid are watching him intently. His blush deepens when he sees Faisal smiling at him, his eyes all-knowing.

Ali knows it is not an accident that Thomas asks him to stand next to Lawrence for the group picture, with Faisal to Lawrence's left and Ali to his right.

Ali is sure he'll look stiffer than usual in these photographs. He can feel the heat of Lawrence’s body next to him. His scent is intoxicating, that strange and unique mix of sand and grass and water Ali hadn’t realised he was missing.

Lawrence touches Ali’s shoulder and Ali starts. He hadn't noticed the photographer was finished.

“Would you…" Lawrence trails off, eyes on the ground. "Would you share a meal with me, Sherif?” he asks, eyes darting up to meet Ali's.

Ali looks at Lawrence. It is still there, he realises, in his friend’s eyes, the embers of that fire which almost drove Lawrence to destruction. The fire Ali had feared Deraa had extinguished. The fire Lawrence had once had for Ali, late at night, as the wind drifted across endless sands and all was quiet.

“Yes.”

* * *

Lawrence and Ali have much to discuss, Ali knows this. Too many bitter, angry words had been exchanged between them in those last days they had together for conversation to be unnesseccary.

Yet they do very little talking.

Lawrence’s rooms are far more luxurious than his own and the bed is far softer. Ali supposes later that it should have occurred to him at the time that he and Lawrence had never shared a bed before, only furs thrown across sand dunes and stone floors.

But Ali is not capable of thinking much of anything other than of Lawrence and of the way his body wraps around Ali’s own.

The darkness of the room is pierced only by the light from the fire. Before Deraa, light had never bothered Lawrence. Lawrence had loved to spread Ali out beneath him and watch Ali's body shake as Lawrence slowly took him apart. And he had looked at Ali with hot eyes and a smile on his face when Ali returned the favor. Ali had suspected the exhibitionist in Lawrence had enjoyed baring his long, pale body to the appreciative eyes of his lover. That Lawrence had known no shame.

But now, Lawrence was as Auda had said: changed, but still Aurens. Still the man who'd chosen Ali's name for him as his own.

_Aurens._

“Aurens…”

Ali doesn’t realise he’d spoken aloud until Lawrence curls around him, clinging to him as if Ali was the only thing stopping him from falling completely apart.

Ali kisses Lawrence’s neck, his cheek, his mouth. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

Lawrence buries his face in Ali’s neck and Ali can feel the warmth of Lawrence’s tears on his skin. Ali strokes Lawrence’s hair and murmurs sweet nonsense in his ear.

He knows of the deep scars on Lawrence’s back, of the terrible injuries inflicted on him by the Turkish General. He knows Lawrence saw his own body as nothing but another burden after Deraa. Ali knows because he is the one who cleaned and dressed the wounds, Ali knows because he is the one who cared for Lawrence in the days and weeks after Deraa.

But he also knows where Lawrence’s skin is still as pale and smooth and unmarked as before Lawrence ever saw the desert. He knows Lawrence’s body almost as well as his own.

He’s sure he can bring Lawrence pleasure, as he has on a hundred other nights. He’s sure he can unravel the severance between Lawrence’s strong but battered spirit and his precious, fragile body. Or that he can at least bring about the beginnings of it.

And when Lawrence rests that golden head on Ali’s chest afterwards, Ali knows that, if nothing else, his Aurens has returned to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write an _Indiana Jones_ fic. But the _Lawrence of Arabia_ request for Lawrence/Ali delighted me. _Lawrence of Arabia_ got me through one of the toughest times in my life and I encourage anyone who hasn’t seen _Lawrence of Arabia_ to watch it. It’s a rare gem of a movie that is worth its hype.
> 
> To my recipient, happy Yuletide! I certainly enjoyed writing this and I hope it scratches your Lawrence/Ali itch as well as it did mine.
> 
> This is the first fic I’ve written in more than five years that isn’t fairly light-hearted, comedic and either het or femslash so I hope I didn’t mishandle the darker tone of this story or the slash. Due to this, any and all concrit would be keenly embraced even moreso than usual!


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